Chapter 1
Every time I close my eyes, I can picture the shit-eating grin that splits his face as he does the one thing he knows will hurt me the most.
I curl in on myself on the bathroom floor, a blood-curdling scream tearing from my lungs.
There's nothing but pain.
Unrelenting.
All-consuming.
I don't feel the cold tiles beneath my body.
I don't hear the sounds of the New Year's celebration going on outside.
Fireworks explode somewhere beyond these walls. People are laughing. Glasses are clinking together. Someone is counting down to a brand-new year.
A new year.
A fresh start.
A fucking lie.
None of it reaches me.
My whole world consists of this giant, gaping hole in my chest—the one currently tearing screams from my throat so violent they leave my entire body shaking uncontrollably.
Cold seeps into my veins, turning every inch of me to ice as I let the tiles beneath me absorb every scream, every sob, every broken piece of me.
It feels as though someone has reached inside my chest and ripped everything out.
Not my heart.
Everything.
Leaving behind an empty cavity that somehow still manages to ache.
Breathing hurts.
Thinking hurts.
Existing hurts.
I claw at my shirt over my heart as though I can somehow stop it from splitting open. As though I can physically hold together something that shattered long before I hit the floor.
I don't remember falling.
One minute I was standing.
The next, my knees gave out.
Maybe I screamed.
Maybe I didn't.
Maybe the sound I'm hearing now isn't even coming from me anymore.
The person I was five minutes ago feels like someone I used to know.
Someone innocent.
Someone who believed promises meant something.
Someone who thought she knew the person she'd built her life around.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
His face is there again.
That smile.
That fucking smile.
Not regret.
Not shame.
Not even sadness.
Triumph.
As though he has finally won some game I didn't know we were playing.
My stomach twists violently.
I gag, but there is nothing left in me to bring up.
I press my forehead against the floor.
Cold.
I need cold.
I need something real.
Something that hurts enough to drown everything else out.
Outside, another firework explodes.
The light flashes beneath the bathroom door.
For a fraction of a second, the room turns white.
Then darkness again.
Just like that.
Gone.
I am so lost in the pain that I don't hear the door click open.
It takes me a minute to feel the gentle pull on my shoulders as my mother tries to lift me from the floor.
I don't want to move.
I don't want to be touched.
I don't want anyone to see me like this.
But she doesn't ask.
She simply gathers me up.
It takes several attempts before she finally manages to pull me into some semblance of an embrace, my body folding against hers as though I'm a child again.
Her body absorbs the violent sobs wracking mine.
She doesn't say a word.
She just holds me.
Her hand moves slowly through my hair while my tears soak into her shirt.
She lets me fall apart because there is nothing else she can do.
And somehow, that makes me cry harder.
Because mothers aren't supposed to see their children like this.
They're supposed to be able to fix things.
Kiss scraped knees.
Bandage cuts.
Make monsters disappear from underneath beds.
They're not supposed to hold their grown daughters together while they disintegrate in their arms.
Somewhere inside the black hole that has become my mind, I register the anger pulsing through her.
The subtle clench of her jaw.
The rigid set of her shoulders.
The way her breathing grows slower, more deliberate, as though she's fighting every instinct telling her to go after the person who reduced her daughter to this.
I wonder if she can feel how broken I am.
I wonder if she knows there isn't enough glue in the world to put me back together again.
I wonder if she knows that part of me died long before tonight.
Time loses all meaning.
Minutes.
Maybe hours.
Eventually, the sobs become quieter, leaving behind nothing but hollow breaths and exhausted silence.
My mother doesn't ask questions.
Not yet.
Maybe she knows I'll tell her when I can.
Maybe she knows there are some wounds that bleed too much to be touched.
Eventually, I'm calm enough to retreat to my bedroom.
My legs feel like they're made of someone else's bones.
I close the bedroom door behind me and lean against it for a second, staring at nothing.
The house is still alive around me.
Music.
Laughter.
Voices.
The occasional burst of fireworks.
Everyone is celebrating.
And I'm standing in the darkness of my bedroom wondering how I'm supposed to wake up tomorrow and pretend my life hasn't just been ripped apart.
The tears have stopped.
The pain hasn't.
It never does.
Then I move on autopilot.
I crunch the meth into a fine powder so I can cut a line, the note already rolled and waiting beside it.
My hands don't even shake anymore.
I've done this enough times to know exactly how much I need.
There is no hesitation.
No ceremony.
No thought.
Just habit.
I snort the meth.
The burn tears through my nose, sharp and vicious, forcing my eyes closed.
For a brief moment, it cuts through the pain in my chest.
Not because the pain disappears.
Because something else hurts more.
The chemical rush spreads through me, pushing everything else to the edges.
The grief.
The anger.
The memories.
Him.
For a few precious seconds, I don't have to feel any of it.
And that is what makes it so dangerous.
It doesn't save me.
It simply gives me somewhere else to put the pain.
It's enough.
Just enough to breathe again.
I wipe away every trace.
No evidence.
No questions.
No concerned looks.
The bathroom gets checked.
The room gets checked.
Everything goes back where it belongs.
As though nothing happened.
As though I didn't just shatter on a bathroom floor.
As though I'm not bleeding somewhere nobody can see.
By the time I open my bedroom door, my mask is firmly back in place.
I join everyone outside again.
Someone hands me a drink.
I take it without hesitation.
The alcohol burns down my throat.
I welcome it.
One poison after another.
Time for another poison.
The drinks are flowing.
The drunk people are getting louder.
And they're getting on my nerves.
Every laugh feels too loud.
Every drunken joke grates against my skull.
Every time someone asks if I'm okay, I smile.
"I'm fine."
The lie comes easily.
I've had practice.
I need another hit.
If I'm going to be dealing with this shit all night, I need another hit.
I excuse myself to use the bathroom.
Nobody questions it.
Why would they?
Back in my bedroom, I close the door and take another line.
The burn in my nose feels good.
It feels safe.
It feels like before.
Before tonight.
Before everything changed.
For a moment, I can pretend I'm back in that familiar place where the only thing I have to worry about is getting through the next few hours.
I return outside.
The night continues.
Nobody knows.
By dawn, almost everyone has disappeared.
The house is quiet now.
The kind of quiet that feels completely different from the silence of the bathroom.
My dad is still sitting nearby.
Technically, he's my stepdad.
But he's the only true father figure I've ever had.
He's deep into his brandy, headphones covering his ears as he listens to old rock songs.
I watch him for a while.
He doesn't say anything.
Neither do I.
There's something strangely comforting about sitting beside someone who doesn't demand anything from me.
No explanations.
No questions.
No pretending.
Just silence.
I stare off into the distance.
Memories haunt me.
The good.
The bad.
Everything in between.
Moments I'd forgotten.
Moments I wish I could forget.
I start questioning my decision to leave.
Maybe I made a mistake.
Maybe I should have stayed.
Maybe I should have tried harder.
Maybe I should have tolerated more.
The questions creep in slowly, one after another, until they're screaming louder than the music in my dad's headphones.
What if I hadn't left?
What if I'd done something differently?
What if I had been better?
I don't have answers.
Only guilt.
Eventually, my dad disappears.
He's probably gone to bed.
The sun has shifted, creeping higher into the sky until the light coming through the window blinds me slightly.
I squint and look away.
The children will be waking up soon.
They'll want to speak to their dad.
Wish him a happy New Year.
The thought makes my stomach twist.
I dread making that call.
Because he will see right through me.
He always does.
He'll hear something in my voice.
Notice the hesitation.
The exhaustion.
The cracks in the carefully constructed mask.
He will know.
He will know I'm still using.
He taught me, after all.
And that is perhaps the most terrifying part.
Not that I'm using.
Not that I can't stop.
But that the person who knows exactly what I'm hiding...
Is the same person I'm supposed to pretend everything is fine for.
